"Misinformation is common at Wesleyan, especially through me."
by Jacob Eisenstein
"Misinformation is common at Wesleyan, especially through me."
To a journalist searching desperately for a story to meet a fast- approaching deadline, these are not comforting words when coming from an anonymous source. What would Woodward and Berstein have done if "Deepthroat" had given them a line like that? After all, the journalistic ideal, above all else, is truth. But if I wanted to get the biggest story on campus over fall break, I knew sacrifices would have to be made.
It all began at about 9:00 PM on a quiet October evening, when I got a cryptic message on my answering machine. "The project is nearing fruition. If you want in, be at the rendezvous point at 9:30." I could feel the sweat running down my forehead. That the conspirators had allowed me, a journalist, to know of their most secret plans was both amazing and frightening. What would the penalty be if I over-stepped my bounds, reported a little too much? These thoughts still trouble my mind today, even as I write this article. I can't help but think of the many journalists who, like myself, have been subjected to the most disgusting forms of torture for revealing conspiracies like this one by the violent, unpredictable people that lead them.
Still, I knew it had to be done. If no one put their neck on the line, the students of Wesleyan would remain ignorant of the sinister underground of political intrigue that pervades this institution. I was the only journalist left on campus over fall break. It had to be me. I reached the designated meeting place and cautiously opened the door.
When I entered, the leader nodded to me and returned to work. Three other conspirators were gathered around a computer, making final revisions on some posters. I didn't really understand what the posters meant, but they had inflammatory headlines about things like ozone and Newt Gingrich. "You really don't know how to spell," complained one conspirator, after reading over the documents. "You can tell from our posters that we're not English majors," the leader admitted. Still, through the terrible grammar and abominable spelling, the message was clear. Wesleyan students were mad as hell, and they had decided to take action.
While printing the posters, which came in four variations, the leader made a confession. "Believe it or not, these posters took two hours to come up with. They totally exhausted my store of creative ideas. Still, I'm sure it was worth it. Besides, now I don't have to think about the world for the rest of the semester."
We then moved to a new location, the name of which I am not permitted to reveal. There the posters were photocopied, using a school-funded copy machine. "Don't print that," said the leader, "it will give away my identity." I tried to accomodate him, but it was just too ironic. If it costs me my life, I know I will not have died in vain.
The copying was quickly finished, and the night's real work began. From the Center For the Arts to Butterfield C, no bulletin board was spared. The conspirators were almost evangelical in their zeal to ensure that every student got the word about the new movement afoot on campus.
"Our original plan was a full-page spread in the Argus, but we didn't think they'd go for it," the leader told me. "This is along with my other planned campus organization, the Vehicle Translocation Club, which disassembles vehicles and reassembles them on top of buildings. The crowning achievement of this club would be to reassemble a full-sized school bus inside the shaft of the Science Tower."
From my many discussions with him, I am completely convinced that the leader of this operation is clinically insane and cannot be held responsible for his actions. He cites as his inspirational hero an individual he would identify only as "Vomit Boy." Toward the end of the night, he made a revealing admission: "We just want to be cool but we can't be." Was this whole postering campaign really just a cry for help, a desperate attempt to gain acceptance among his peers?
The posters finally ran out, and while walking back to WestCo., I thought long and hard to myself about what had transpired. What was once an idea in the head of a half-insane college student had been transformed into a living, breathing movement, and I was there to see it happen. The leader's last words have stuck with me ever since. With a tear in his eye, he turned to me and said: "This is my commentary on student activism at Wesleyan." He thought about that for a while and then said: "That's pretty harsh, though."